october, xxvii.

Dreams of Amakhala. Waking up early in the morning, setting out to search for lions and rhinos. The crispness of the night still in the air, sometimes the moon. I still think of that lonely ostrich, trotting its way across the grass plains bathed in orange light, sunrise all around us. Maybe life could be different again, a little bit more like that. An existence away from the city; from concrete and stillness of moving but not going anywhere. There are other dreams too. Of my own place, ours. The making of a home, the smell of freshly baked bread in the oven, and a patio to drink coffee on. Near the sea, always near the sea with mountains whenever my heart wants them. An unfinished knitting in a basket and a wall full of books. Then the counting off the weeks and months measured by fruit. Sometimes these thoughts sustain me, keep me afloat, through days.